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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873778">Ring True</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard'>RebrandedBard</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Burning, Confess or Die, Curses, Denial of Feelings, EDIT 2 Electric Boogaloo: now with BETTER beta, EDIT: now with beta, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pain, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, Writer's Block, and really that had better be then last of it but if not let me know if there are anymore mistakes, but it's mostly talk not really meant in the least, death mention, i don't know guys I just kind of gave up at the end there, no beta we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments, this was my writer's block exercise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:07:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,433</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24873778</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaskier accidentally puts on a cursed ring sent to him by the goddess Nehaleni, and it seems to react to thoughts on a particular subject.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>577</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ring True</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Normally, Jaskier was not one for jewellry. He wore his signet ring, certainly, but seldom did he ever wear anything in addition. It was more for function than fashion in any case, being a token from home and a reminder of his years spent at Oxenfurt, occasionally used to seal up his correspondence. When it came to accessorizing, he preferred to outfit himself with perfumes and let his clothes do the rest of the work. An ensemble relying on easily lost trimmings such as hats, earrings, bangles and such, was not an ensemble he wished to assemble. He’d had too many experiences losing precious, lovely things during hasty escapes to allow himself to be so foolish.</p><p>However, the weighty rose ring he found among the coins and trinkets tossed at his feet gave him pause. He gathered it with the rest, but kept it out when he returned to the table where Geralt waited, wanting to give it a good look in the light. It was silver and finely detailed. One large rosebud in the center, two daggers on either side. It suited him: delicate and dangerous, and he smiled as he fiddled with it, debating whether or not to slip off his signet and try it.</p><p>“What is that?” Geralt asked, looking up from his half-eaten plate. He’d stopped midway, as was his habit, to listen politely to the last of Jaskier’s set. It was the time Jaskier usually used to experiment with new material, a few songs after Toss A Coin—following which plenty of coin was always sure to be given, with which Jaskier always ordered their dinner, hence, half-eaten by the end. It was likewise the time when Jaskier came strutting back to the table to sort out his fare and to share whatever oddities were mixed in. Flowers, usually. Bread was still a choice contribution, however popular Jaskier became. Single earrings, a decorative button, and twice—for whatever reason—a buckle of unknown origin. It was always entertaining to see what might be added to the collection. Jaskier kept the most interesting things in a small purse tucked in the pocket of his bag. His heart always hummed excitedly in his chest when Jaskier returned to the table at these times. Not for any other reason, of course.</p><p>“A ring,” Jaskier replied. He passed it to Geralt to examine. “Is it silver? I think it must be, but you would know better than I. That would be a useful thing if I ever had to get fisty with a monster on the road, clobber it with a solid right hook. What do you think?”</p><p>“It’s silver. Not much of it. Not sure how effective it would be.” Geralt’s lips curled with the barest of grins. “Might sting like a paper cut at most.”</p><p>“It’ll sting worse when I throw from the shoulder,” Jaskier rebuffed proudly. He jabbed a fake punch at Geralt who didn’t bother to flinch. Thinking he might’ve had the courtesy to at least pretend to block him, Jaskier swiped Geralt’s ale with his right hand and took a greedy gulp.</p><p>“It’s tarnished. Needs a polish,” Geralt said, waving the ring back in his direction.</p><p>“So could the ale. It’s sour here; someone needs to take better care with their recipe.” Jaskier grimaced and looked into the mug with distaste.</p><p>“If you don’t like it, give it back. Nobody told you to drink it.”</p><p>“You did. I came back twenty minutes ago for my break and you told me to shut up and drink when I was asking you which song I should play.” But obligingly, Jaskier shoved the mug forward. In the process, he accidentally bumped Geralt’s hand and the ring was nocked from it, falling with a musical chime to the floor.</p><p>At once, Jaskier and Geralt scrambled for it. Despite their teasing, they both knew a silver ring was worth a good price, and it’d be a shame to lose such a treasure. Geralt got in the way, trapping Jaskier between his chair and the table as he leapt to his knees to catch the ring. Jaskier reached for it with his left hand, his right still occupied with the mug. Geralt caught the ring on the first bounce and turned to show it triumphantly to Jaskier. It made quite a picture as the sudden panic came to a quiet halt: Geralt, smiling on one knee in front of Jaskier, his left hand reaching towards him.</p><p>To make light of the awkward pause, Jaskier brought the mug to his chest and gasped theatrically. He offered his left hand prettily, pinky poised, and said, “I do! Oh, Geralt, you romantic fool, I thought you’d <em>never </em>ask!”</p><p>Geralt was back in his seat again the next moment, burying his attention in his plate, head low. He spoke with his mouth full, telling Jaskier off for being a klutz. Despite himself, his heart buzzed a little faster.</p><p>Jaskier smiled and settled back in his seat. “You’ve still got my ring,” he said.</p><p>“And you’ve got my mug.”</p><p>Jaskier scooted it across the table, and Geralt pressed the ring into his palm, content to ignore the rest.</p><p>“Really, you might’ve at least put it on my finger. You always waste a perfectly good joke.” Jaskier’s tone was light, but Geralt could hear a bitter note at the end. The ring shone in Jaskier’s hand, looking almost like gold in the firelight. Jaskier put it on his ring finger showily and wiggled his hand in Geralt’s face. “We shall have a summer wedding,” he teased. Then he winced, and the ring seemed to glow. A trick of the light?</p><p>It was then Geralt realized it had not been his heart buzzing. It was his medallion.</p><p>“Shit,” he hissed. “Jaskier, take that thing off.”</p><p>Jaskier saw the seriousness in Geralt’s expression and tugged at the ring. He twisted it around his finger, and pulled until his knuckle turned white, but it wouldn’t come free. In fact, it squeezed tighter around his finger the more he tried to pull at it. His face became a little pale as he looked at the ring. It did not want to budge. The moment he stopped, it relaxed.</p><p>“Geralt? Geralt, what’s wrong with it?” he asked, speaking in a small voice.</p><p>“I don’t know. It’s something magic.”</p><p>Obviously. Jaskier paled further. “A curse?”</p><p>“Does it hurt?”</p><p>“It did when I tried to take it off. Now, it’s only a bit snug.” Jaskier brought his other hand to his forehead, wiping it down his face in dismay. “I didn’t think the new song was <em>that </em>terrible. Maybe <em>purple</em> and <em>circle</em> were a slight stretch to rhyme, but I don’t think it’s so bad to warrant a <em>curse</em>. Actually, giving it thought, maybe it was. I didn’t go to Oxenfurt for all that time to write near-rhymes like a pedestrian. No poet ever won the love of fair hearts with only <em>near</em>-rhymes. It’s hard enough to turn a stubborn head with even <em>legendary</em> rhymes,” he added grumbling.</p><p>Jaskier winced as the ring flashed hot on his skin a moment. He shook his hand and blew on it, but the sensation was gone in an instant. He looked to Geralt. “Did you see that?”</p><p>Geralt nodded. It had turned red.</p><p>“Did you see who threw it? There might be time to find them and get them to take it off,” Jaskier said. He turned in his chair to scan the room for the guilty suspect.</p><p>“No.” He scented the air for signs of hostility, but found nothing. He grabbed Jaskier’s wrist and leaned forward across the table to sniff the ring. There was not a trace of anything on it. It was as if nothing had touched it before Jaskier. A mysterious object indeed.</p><p>“What made it do that? Was it the <em>circle</em> bit?” Jaskier mused. He was reluctant to try a poor rhyme again. It hadn’t hurt that much, but one never knew with magic.</p><p>“I’d put my money on <em>fair hearts,”</em> Geralt replied. Nobody could be <em>that</em> annoyed by a poor rhyme; not enough to curse a ring at any rate. That offence was rewarded with rotten fruit and boisterous booing. Most of Jaskier’s problems came from poor romantic choices; a spurned lover or jealous spouse seemed more likely. It had burned after the mention of love. Experience told him that was the trigger.</p><p>Jaskier sighed and tipped back in his chair, looking instantly relieved. The color even came back to his face. “Oh of course: a love curse. Well isn’t that just <em>lovely</em>. Actually, considering the many alternatives, it is lovely. How long will it be this time, I wonder; a week? A month? I believe the longest I’ve ever been afflicted was a month. That’s the longest, most expensive kind of curse to be commissioned in this part of the country, if memory serves.”</p><p>Geralt was genuinely surprised. Not to find out that Jaskier had been cursed so often—that was easy enough to guess just by looking at the man for five minutes. It surprised him that Jaskier knew enough about curses to evaluate them. And by region, no less. “Have you ever commissioned a curse?” he asked. He was, admittedly, curious.</p><p>“Certainly not.” Jaskier scoffed, mildly affronted. “If I have a problem with someone, I devise the most obnoxious tune I can muster and pepper it with my most creative insults, then I sing at them until I’m carried away or my voice gives out. Or, in the more serious cases, we solve things hand to hand like well-bred gentlemen.” Jaskier smiled, putting down his fists after making his point. “No, I would never curse someone with magic over words, but I’ve been cursed enough times to go to the source. It’s easy enough to solve, provided the one I’ve wronged isn’t the witch or mage who bore the spell. A simple payment and it’s removed. I’ve even shopped around to find better rates in larger cities where there’s competition,” he added with a wink.</p><p>He was a man with experiences of his <em>own</em>.</p><p>Geralt returned to his meal, satisfied that there was no immediate threat now that the curse had been identified. “Then tell me, Curse Expert: will you last the night without seeing a mage?”</p><p>“If I avoid speaking of love, I’m sure I shall. It burned when I said my poems won hearts—or didn’t, as the example may be—so it must be someone I’ve serenaded who laid the curse. Or someone who knows I show my love through song and wishes to prevent me from doing so. That could be just about anyone: past lovers or jealous listeners. It matters little who placed it. In the morning, we’ll find a mage, get an appraisal, and a half bag of coin later, pop! It’ll be off! And I can’t seduce anyone with a song if I’m asleep now, can I? Can’t even think of it.”</p><p>Geralt nodded. “Better make it an early night in that case.” He finished the rest of his meal in silence. Jaskier polished off the ale, blessedly quiet, tapping his fingers on the table. The sound didn’t bother Geralt much; he preferred the rhythmic tapping to conversation as a general rule, being something that required no participation. Sitting together, not sharing a word, was nice. He was glad that over the last few years Jaskier had finally become comfortable enough around him that he no longer needed to fill every expanse of time with idle, forced chatter. At these times, Geralt could appreciate the nearness of him in earnest.</p><p>“Have we got a room?” It was in many ways a privilege to be the first to break the peace.</p><p>Jaskier drew his head up from a daydream. “Hmm? Oh, a room. No, not yet. I asked one of the girls about it this afternoon before my performance. They were cleaning out the empty rooms: something about a mess with mice or owls or something having got in a window after lunch and tearing up the hall. Our things are in the keeper’s office at the moment. I’d quite forgotten until you mentioned it, but now I wonder why she hasn’t returned with a key for me.”</p><p>Geralt raised a brow but said nothing. It was an owl. Several, actually. He thought he’d smelled something strange by the stairwell when he entered, but he hadn’t bothered to identify it. It was the tail end of the slow season for travel, the very beginning of spring. Likely a nest of owls had come to roost in one or two of the empty rooms when the winter mice moved in. Some idiot must have left a window open, or some playful child had tossed a ball through it.</p><p>Still, travel was picking up in anticipation of the first spring markets. The tavern was full and the streets lively. There would be a rush on business soon. In a few days, getting a room might require a good search before things settled back down. People were always most eager to go to the first travelling merchant’s market of the year, then interest fell again as going out became more commonplace. The winter months made people stir crazy, truly.</p><p>“Madam! My companion and I are ready for our room now, if our room is ready for us,” Jaskier announced, raising a friendly hand at the barmaid on duty as she passed. They were close enough to catch her eye; part of the reason Geralt’s mug had been so well-tended throughout the performance. “Two fresh beds, preferably with a view, as requested. Clean sheets, a fireplace, and wood to order.”</p><p>She stopped self-consciously, her hand on the ale pitcher. “A double room?” she clarified.</p><p>“Unless you have a triple. I could lay myself across <em>two</em> beds tonight, my legs are so stretched out from walking all day.” He grinned cheekily at her in his most winning way.</p><p>“Could you?” The barmaid cleared her throat, and Jaskier’s cheeky smile wavered. She looked around, searching for something. “Who did you speak to about the room?” she asked.</p><p>“The young lady with the black hair. Freckled?” Jaskier looked toward her expectantly.</p><p>Geralt closed his eyes slowly, already anticipating the coming mistake.</p><p>The barmaid grimaced. “Lazy May. I apologize for that girl. Sent her to get a mage to get the owls and she disappeared. Found her two hours later curled up with the butcher’s boy in the stable. She ran off after that double-quick in shame and <em>I</em> had to do the fetching myself. She’s been hiding in her room ever since, clean forgot to make a reservation.”</p><p>“Is this your long-winded way of telling us you’ve booked up since this afternoon?” Geralt asked gruffly. He’d rather not waste time. If they had to go elsewhere this late in the evening, they wouldn’t have much time before the only other proprietor went to bed, and it was a walk to the other side of town.</p><p>She faltered. “There <em>is</em> a room. I’m afraid there’s only one bed available, however. The market opens tomorrow and we’ve had quite a lot of traffic during dinner.”</p><p>Geralt sighed. Jaskier on the other hand looked tense.</p><p>“For the inconvenience, I can argue you a reduced price with the owner,” she offered. “With all this business, I’m sure she’d be more than willing.”</p><p>“Thank you, but I think we’ll be—”</p><p>“We’ll take it,” Geralt agreed, interrupting Jaskier.</p><p>Jaskier turned his head. “We will?”</p><p>“I’m tired. If you want to try your luck at the other inn, be my guest.”</p><p>Jaskier made a face. “Not likely.”</p><p>“It’s this way,” the woman said.</p><p>They collected their things and hefted up the narrow stairs. It had been a long day for the both of them. It was the second time they’d been in this city in a week, having just left it for a contract in a nearby town for a nest of cockatrices that had taken over a henhouse in a rather unusual number. Jaskier had gotten some fine quills from them: a present from Geralt. The rest of the feathers they’d sold that very day on their return to town, and for a good price. That made the journey more palatable. But the road was still exhausting, being steep in either direction, and made all the worse for being travelled twice. Someone from the city council had sent their son on a horse to fetch them to solve a situation involving drowners in the sewers. It had been a long search to exterminate them, wading through a thick stream of unmentionable filth. Geralt had taken it upon himself to dive into the river for a preliminary bath. It would not have been a wise decision to return to the inn otherwise. Monster guts on an inn floor were one thing; people were less inclined to tolerate their <em>own</em> messes being brought forth.</p><p>Suffice to say, they needed their rest.</p><p>“I don’t suppose there’s a bath waiting either,” Geralt said.</p><p>“I could have one ready in a minute,” she replied. She gave them their key and hurried away back down the stairs to prepare the bathroom.</p><p>“Leather boots. I hate to think of what they’ve soaked up during your underground adventure.” Jaskier gestured toward Geralt’s feet as he opened the door, joking that they ought to have a mat for him to wipe his feet before entering.</p><p>“Left them by the entrance,” Geralt said.</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes bulged. “You went down there barefoot? You could have stepped in anything in that murky water. Trash of all kinds ends up down there and you might’ve cut your feet on any number of sharp, disease-ridden things. And leaving your feet exposed to attack? What were you thinking?”</p><p>“I was thinking they were new boots,” he grunted.</p><p>“New boots that have already been broken in with a fine assortment of cockatrice scratches. Really, Geralt. Be practical.”</p><p>“Another word and I’ll sell those quills,” Geralt threatened.</p><p>Jaskier flung a protective hand over the flap of his bag. “Try it and I’ll have to revisit that one-two, right hook demonstration from earlier. I’ve never had such nice quills. I’ve grown attached, and there’ll be no getting them back now. I’ve already used them to pen a new ballad of your latest exploits, and it’d be a shame to begin with another pe—”</p><p>Jaskier gasped and dropped his bag. One hand flew to cover the other and he curled around it, hissing in pain. Geralt tore his hand free to assess the situation, but the damage was done. The skin poking out from beneath Jaskier’s ring was a little pink, but that did not concern him as much as what else he saw. The rosebud had opened wider.</p><p>“What the hell was that?” Geralt asked.</p><p>Jaskier shook his head. “I don’t know. I said nothing about love. I was talking about <em>pens</em> for goodness’ sake.” He was trembling and his hand had turned hot in Geralt’s.</p><p>“Maybe it <em>was</em> your song-writing. Insult any writers lately? Musicians?”</p><p>“None. I can’t think what else it would be.”</p><p>Geralt watched him a moment more. Jaskier had gone pale again with the unforeseen shock. He looked unsteady. “How badly did it hurt you?”</p><p>Jaskier squinted. “It was … before, it was only my finger. A slight heat. It surprised me more than it hurt, really, but this time, it was like spilling hot tea. It was stronger. And it was the whole hand.”</p><p>Geralt unconsciously curled his hand around Jaskier’s gripping it.</p><p>Jaskier took a deep breath. “Your hand feels nice. Cold, I mean,” he was quick to correct. “Slow heartbeat, slow circulation of the blood: cold witcher hands. Like snow for a burn. It hurts less when you hold it.”</p><p>Geralt gave him an odd look, but continued to hold his hand in the doorway awhile longer, until Jaskier looked his regular color. “It think it’d be best if you stopped talking for the rest of the night. Until we know for sure what causes it, we don’t want the ring flaring up again.”</p><p>Jaskier opened his mouth to make some indignant accusation, but closed it, realizing the practicality of his plan. He nodded solemnly, even as he looked disappointed.</p><p>They unpacked their things and stood staring at the bed. Rather, Jaskier was staring at the bed; Geralt was staring at Jaskier. They were both bone tired, Geralt arguably worse for his fighting. If Jaskier had a chance, he’d argue that walking miles and miles all day was more tiring than an hour in the sewer and a short fight, but Geralt didn’t give him that chance. He felt guilty enough for failing to recognize the warning his medallion gave towards the ring. Tonight he’d take the floor.</p><p>“Take it,” he said. “Slow blood makes for a cold bed. I’ll sleep in front of the fireplace.”</p><p>Jaskier opened his mouth once more, but Geralt picked Jaskier’s bag up and tossed it on the bed for him conclusively. The barmaid arrived then to announce that the bath was ready for him, and he had the perfect excuse to leave before there could be any more protests. Or so he thought. Jaskier was on his heels, dogging him down to the bathroom as always, to see him bathed properly, if wordlessly. At least for a bit. He didn’t expect the silence to last long, knowing Jaskier’s patience in that particular area.</p><p>When it came to it, Jaskier was well behaved, it turned out. There was a great deal of poking and physical directing involved in exchange: a simple tap to make him lean his head back or a hand on his back to make him lean forward, but he kept his mouth cautiously shut. No more talking, no more burning. There was nothing to fear from the ring. Not to imply for a moment that Jaskier was noiseless; he still grunted and huffed if his sleeves got wet or Geralt accidentally splashed him, rather than his usual cries of, “Gosh!” or, “Oh!” in lament. His cries of annoyance tended to sound silly. It was almost embarrassing how tame they were, and Geralt shook his head more than once when he heard them. It was strange not to hear any now. He felt somehow more exposed without Jaskier’s prattling, which was ridiculous when one considered exactly how exposed he was in a bath, talking or no.</p><p>The bath went from hot to lukewarm quickly enough, and soon it’d be time to get out, dry up, and brave the drafty hall and stairwell back up to the room. Jaskier put a hand on his shoulder to say as much, but Geralt closed his eyes and sank a little lower, trying to get whatever last bit of warmth he could from the water before rising. He raised a hand, hooking a light grip around Jaskier’s arm to let him know he understood, and he’d be up in a minute. Without meaning to, he’d also defaulted to silent communication. And without meaning to, he forgot to let go. His shoulder sunk below the water, and a hotspot began to bubble there as Jaskier’s hand entered the water with an audible sizzle.</p><p>Geralt opened his eyes and shifted around in the tub, sloshing water over the sides as he twisted to look at Jaskier’s hand—the left hand again. The band was <em>glowing.</em> Jaskier grit his teeth against a cry and plunged his hand deeper into the cooling water, all the way up to his elbow. He gave it a swirl and sighed with relief. His knuckles brushed Geralt’s knee and he quickly jerked his hand out again. Before Geralt could even move, Jaskier snatched up the towel and threw it at him. Then, arm dripping, he fled the room, leaving Geralt to wonder if the curse punished <em>thoughts</em> as well as words. If so, it’d be a hard night. Jaskier never stopped thinking of his songs.</p><p>But why had he run?</p><p>Frustration. That was the conclusion Geralt drew when he reentered their room. Jaskier was pacing in the middle of the floor, fretting his bottom lip, twisting the ring around and around, evidently deep in thought. He was the picture of frustration, his face red with it. He looked ready to burst at any moment, and no wonder.</p><p>“It can hear you think,” he said, closing the door behind him.</p><p>Jaskier <em>jumped.</em> He turned back to Geralt, his expression one of horror. He was even whiter than he’d been before when the cause was still unknown.</p><p>“Try not to think or writing. Avoid thinking about songs.” Geralt could suggest a hundred useless things and it wouldn’t help. He knew it. Jaskier was born for music. If he lay his ear against Jaskier’s head, he was sure he could hear the memory of a stricken lute bouncing around inside.</p><p>“I wasn’t—I wasn’t considering the <em>consequences,” </em>Jaskier stammered. He laughed in the most unconvincing manner, playing off—(Geralt scented the air)—embarrassment? And fear.</p><p>“It hadn’t occurred to me,” he went on, “that thinking could make it burn. Rookie mistake. I ought to have known better. I remember once, I was afflicted with a curse that forced me to hear one of Valdo Marx’s early works every time I heard the word ‘bard’ for a week, and given how people call for me, you can imagine what a torment that was. I got him back in the end with a Foul Foot curse that made him fumble every time someone walked beside him humming, and I wrote one of my catchiest tunes that month to ensure people hummed plenty!”</p><p>He was rambling again as he did when he would rather avoid talking: an ironic habit. He would talk and talk until the other party forgot the original point of conversation. It was also confusing. What was so embarrassing about a simple slip?</p><p>“I’ll preoccupy myself. I’ll think of <em>old</em> songs over and over and over again so I don’t think of new ones,” he decided.</p><p>“If you do, you’ll only make it worse. You’ll think of alternate rhymes or choruses you would have written another way.” Geralt squeezed his shoulder warningly. He glared at him, forced him to look his way to ground him in the moment. “Listen to me. No more thinking. No more talking, understand?”</p><p>Jaskier nodded, having swallowed his tongue sometime between those three sentences. He observed Geralt, his furrowed brow, his narrowed gaze, and held his peace. A moment passed before Geralt dropped his hand. Then, Jaskier winced, and Geralt smacked his head as the ring branded him a fourth time.</p><p>“What did I just say! Can’t you go five minutes without composing?” Geralt scolded.</p><p>“I know, I know! I’m sorry! It’s just difficult when you’re <em>right there!</em> Ah, son of a mother-<em>fucking—! </em>Just—! Gah<em>-ah-AH!”</em> Jaskier covered his face and let loose a prolonged, muffled growl of irritation. He scuffed his boot on the floor, accentuating the impassioned cry.</p><p>“What? Did you already think of a line to rewrite? Come on, Jaskier, can’t you be well and truly empty headed for <em>once?”</em></p><p>“Shut up, I’m trying! I’m trying!” Jaskier thumped his forehead three times and bit down on his knuckles. He grunted and closed his eyes. “Gods above; you don’t realize just how often you <em>think</em> about something until someone tells you <em>not </em>to do it, then it’s all you can think of! Why don’t you try it, Geralt? Don’t think of drowners! Don’t think of owls! Don’t think of—of <em>songs</em> … when people are singing a floor below your feet!”</p><p>The drunkest patrons still lingered below, singing and slurring in their alcoholic haze. Their voices carried through the heavy floorboards, obviously merry.</p><p>Jaskier tore at his laces and shucked himself free of his boots. He tossed them to the side along with his doublet, then buried himself in the bed and flung the pillow over his ears. Geralt could hear him mumbling something over and over to himself that sounded much like, ‘pink elephants,’ or some other such nonsense. He sighed and walked to the bedside. There he sat and nudged Jaskier’s ribs with his elbow.</p><p>“I’m busy,” Jaskier muttered.</p><p>“You’re busy getting yourself worked up. We need you to stop thinking and sleep. The longer you’re awake, the more likely you’ll think yourself into a corner and get hurt. You almost <em>boiled</em> the water with your hand earlier.”</p><p>Geralt took Jaskier’s left hand. He moved the ring aside to see an angry red mark on Jaskier’s finger like a fresh burn. He sucked in a breath. It must still sting.</p><p>Jaskier stopped fussing and sat still. Slowly he emerged from beneath his pillow. “It doesn’t feel so bad now,” he said. He, too, had a quick look. “I hope it doesn’t scar. That’s a bit too far for a petty curse. I don’t think I’ve done anything so grievous to warrant that. Not in the last few years, at least. Maybe during my university years, but I still have my doubts.”</p><p>“Lay back and close your eyes,” Geralt said. He heard Jaskier’s heartbeat quicken immediately. “Are you afraid your mind might wander if you don’t keep talking?” he asked.</p><p>“Yes,” Jaskier answered honestly, laying back. He gave Geralt’s hand a squeeze.</p><p>Geralt closed his eyes, rubbed a hand over his temple. This annoying little curse was growing into more of a hazard. He needed Jaskier to fall asleep so morning could hurry up and come. He’d rather not wait and see if the pain grew any worse, but he doubted the mage would see them at this time of night for something so mild. If it wasn’t life-threatening, it wasn’t worth the beauty sleep they’d lose. Jaskier should be happy to go to bed; he’d get to sleep in until noon. Mages in the city were generally a leisurely breed, much like himself.</p><p>“If … you’re a good listener aren’t you?”</p><p>Jaskier opened his eyes and looked at him. “I like to think so. Why?”</p><p>“Close your eyes.” Jaskier did, and Geralt cleared his throat. “I’ll talk awhile. Just until you fall asleep. You won’t have time to think if you’re busy listening.”</p><p>Jaskier sat up, his eyes shining brightly. “You’re going to tell me a bedtime story?” he joked. He squeezed Geralt’s hand with both of his, holding it enthusiastically to his chest like a pleading child, ready for tales of knights and dragons.</p><p>“Jaskier.”</p><p>He lay back and closed his eyes again, looking properly settled. “Sorry. Do go on.”</p><p>“It’s not a—”</p><p>“Oh, but do sit up here, won’t you?” Jaskier interrupted, lifting his head. “If you end up drifting off, you’ll wind up bum on the floor and the sound will wake me up, then it’ll all be for naught, this whole endeavor. Besides, it can’t be comfortable sitting on the edge like that. No sense in it when there’s plenty of room.”</p><p>Geralt sighed.</p><p>“You can always crawl back to your sad little bedroll afterwards if you prefer.”</p><p>After a moment’s hesitation for decency’s sake, Geralt removed his boots and crawled in on the other side of the bed. Jaskier was already waiting, hands folded neatly over his waist, eyes closed and ears at the ready.</p><p>“It’s not a story exactly. I haven’t got anything planned. I just meant to babble nonsense in your ear until you drifted off.”</p><p>“Then babble away old boy.”</p><p>So he did. Geralt recounted the revolting business in the sewers with the drowners. They were even more off-color and grey than usual, living underground in the city’s filth. He spoke low, quietly and evenly, in the most wandering voice he could summon in an attempt to bore Jaskier into sleep. His own mind wandered from drowners to books, his studies in training to become a witcher, and he devolved into reciting facts about the monsters they’d come across working backwards since they met at the tail-end of winter. It was the most he’d spoken in a long time. After a while, he forgot he was speaking to anyone at all, the way he did when he spoke to Roach. He was thinking out loud, hardly noticing Jaskier’s calm, uniform breath against his shoulder.</p><p>He shifted, remembering Jaskier’s presence as he recounted another fact about cockatrices, having remembered that they made excellent quills, and likewise remembering that he’d already said as much the day before when he’d given several to Jaskier. The bard was asleep beside him. He’d turned on his side towards him to listen and his head had rolled onto his shoulder. Judging by his breathing, he was deep in rest.</p><p>Geralt smiled. Jaskier would sleep until noon, undisturbed, and they’d go to a mage first thing and get the ring removed. He’d be so relived, he’d probably fall to writing a song about it over breakfast to taunt the one who’d sent the curse after him. What a waste of a perfectly good ring, putting a curse on it. After it was lifted, the ring would still be good to sell; they might even come out with a profit. The ring was tarnished with age, but silver was silver and a good polish would fix it right up. A rich person, then, who could afford to lose such things. It wouldn’t be difficult to figure out who and find them in the afternoon, and Jaskier would have his chance to sing at them.</p><p>Carefully, Geralt shifted his arm around Jaskier, pulling him closer. Witchers were often cold, after all. He sighed as he felt himself beginning to warm up with Jaskier curled up against him. The one unfortunate thing about going their separate ways in winter was that they did not have many opportunities to camp together in the cold, and therefore, there were few times when they had the excuse of needing to stay together for warmth. Geralt wasn’t the most honest man, and he couldn’t simply ask. He could let Jaskier crowd against him in a busy pub, or use him as a leaning post by the campfire, but he couldn’t do the same. He was glad for Jaskier’s offer.</p><p>He turned over, careful not to disturb him, and put his other arm around Jaskier, tucking his head beneath his chin. In the morning he could say he’d been asleep, simply moving unconsciously, nothing more if Jaskier asked. He wouldn’t, but it made Geralt feel at ease to know he had an excuse. Even a flimsy one as that. He closed his eyes and let himself be lulled by the sound of Jaskier’s heartbeat, so reassuring and steady. Shortly after, he followed him into sleep.</p><p>An hour later, Geralt awoke to the sound of Jaskier screaming.</p><p>Jaskier arched off the bed, convulsing in agony, a long, drawn out shriek pouring from his lungs. Geralt could see his face clearly in the dark room, lit from a singular, menacing source. The ring was glowing <em>red.</em> Jaskier was slick with sweat, so much so that when Geralt tried to grab hold of him to prevent him from falling off the bed, his fingers slipped. Jaskier landed hard, but it did nothing to deter his cries. His nails dug into the wood floor, his left hand white with strain. Geralt could smell the flesh of his skin <em>burning</em> under the ring’s torment.</p><p>This was no petty curse.</p><p>“Cut if off!” Jaskier roared, tearing at the ring. Hysteric tears flowed down his face, white as snow. “Please, cut it! A knife! Please!”</p><p>Geralt watched, paralyzed as Jaskier scratched at his finger, leaving behind fresh scratches. When he smelled the first blood, he leapt forward and pinned Jaskier’s wrists above him to stop the scratching. His heart beat frantically in response to the heavy, acrid scent of fear and pain.</p><p>“We’re going to the mage! Now!” Geralt announced decisively. He picked Jaskier up, lifting him over his shoulder, and they hurried out the door and into the night as Jaskier’s cries woke every tired resident of the inn. If that wouldn’t wake the mage, he’d break down his door.</p><p>In a few minutes’ time, they were running through the city streets towards the nearest mage’s residence. Luckily, the city was large enough to boast a mage of quality, and Geralt had already been to see him to sell the cockatrice feathers. The mage answered the door in his nightgown, having been forced up from his bed by Geralt’s insistent pounding, and looking none too pleased about it. Jaskier had stopped screaming and now was gasping for breath, wracked with broken sobs as his throat gave out.</p><p>“If you can get this off, you can have it,” Geralt said. He let Jaskier down and showed the mage his hand. Jaskier had his jaw clenched and his hand was curled in a painful fist. He muffled another scream against Geralt’s shoulder, the ring burning into his skin anew.</p><p>The mage’s eyes went wide. He ushered them inside quickly and directed them to a chair, motioning for Geralt to sit Jaskier down in it. Jaskier refused to sit still, thrashing and begging them to cut the ring off and be done with it. Geralt sat in the chair and pulled Jaskier in his arms to holding him steady so the mage could examine the ring.</p><p>“How long has he worn this?”</p><p>“He put it on this evening,” Geralt answered. “What in the seven hells is it?”</p><p>“The Ring of Nehaleni.” His voice was one of awe. Nehaleni, a goddess of fate: of dreams and journey. A powerful goddess of destiny. “His eyes!”</p><p>Geralt turned Jaskier’s head. Jaskier’s eyes had glazed over, the once deep blue now turned pale in both iris and pupil, unseeing. An image, faint and unknowable, moved over them like a shadow.</p><p>“He’s still in a dream,” the mage said. “It’s the ring’s magic. The curse will be more powerful at night when his dreams bring his fears to light.”</p><p>“Can you get the blasted ring off! He’s dying!” Geralt held tighter to Jaskier, as if he could pull him back from the nightmares that held him so fiercely. He could feel it as Jaskier became weaker. Jaskier’s heart was erratic with a fear he’d never seen in the man.</p><p>“If I try to cut it off, he <em>will</em> die. The finger contains a vein that connects directly to the heart. The shock brought on from the sudden trauma will kill him. It’s a powerful curse, beset by a goddess, you fool! He has to confront the terms himself or let the curse burn his heart to ash.”</p><p>“Then tell me the terms!” Geralt snapped. He tucked Jaskier’s face in the crook of his neck, a hand behind his head to steady him. Jaskier’s cries were slowly fading, becoming a gentle whimper. The glow from the ring was weakening as well, turning from a brilliant red to orange, then to a fading yellow.</p><p>The mage stroked his temple, contemplative. “People invoke the goddess Nehaleni when they wish to either have something revealed to them, or to conceal something from others, as she oversaw the art of divination as part of her duties. Only when these desires are in conflict entwined with a powerful destiny does she interfere. Since the ring is causing him pain, it would appear she’s trying to compel him to reveal something by force. If she wished to have him conceal something, it would punish him for speaking, but he’s biting his tongue now, trying <em>not</em> to speak. He must confess that which he hides if he wishes to break the curse.”</p><p>As Jaskier’s ragged breath became more regular, they turned to look at him. The bud on the ring opened wider, flashing silver in the moonlight through the window.</p><p>“And he’ll have to do it soon. Before the rose opens completely, he must open up to the truth. She always was one for symbolism.”</p><p>Geralt stroked Jaskier’s back soothingly. He looked between the bard and the mage. “So all he has to do is confess a secret?” he asked.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I’ll pay double for a truth serum if you can have it finished by morning,” he replied.</p><p>The mage shook his head. “It doesn’t work so simply. The truth must be given freely. If you were to force it with magic, it would only bring the end quicker.”</p><p>Geralt snarled and buried his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder. “I can’t let him die. I was the one who failed to recognize the curse before he put the ring on.”</p><p>“Then you must get him to confess willingly. Convince him, whatever dread horror the secret is, that it is written in his destiny. It must be known, or his destiny will be cut off from this world, and himself with it.”</p><p>“Fuck destiny,” Geralt muttered. “It’s just an excuse people use to make sense of this world. It isn’t real.”</p><p>“If that’s the attitude you intend to take on this mission with, then I’m afraid he truly will die.”</p><p>Geralt gripped his friend harder. He would not lose him to this.</p><p>“What can I do?” he whispered.</p><p>The mage shrugged. “Talk to him. That’s all I can advise.”</p><p>Geralt felt his heart sink. “I’ve … I’ve never been very good at that.”</p><p>“Make an effort. His very life depends on it.”</p><p>The mage allowed them to stay another hour, and Geralt paid him for his trouble, and his assistance binding the scrapes and burns on Jaskier’s hand. He carried him back to the inn and laid him to rest on the bed. While Jaskier slept, he cleaned him of sweat with a cloth and changed him into fresh clothes. He stood vigil that night in case the nightmares returned, cradling his hand between his so he might feel the heat of the ring the moment the curse attacked.</p><p>It was late morning when Jaskier opened his eyes. Geralt sat up, leaning over him. Jaskier turned his head, looking so worn and pale. New tears built in the corners of his eyes and he smiled up at him.</p><p>“You’re here,” Jaskier said, voice rough and small.</p><p>Geralt nodded.</p><p>“I had a dream … I … ” Jaskier wiped at his eyes. He felt the cold metal of the ring still on his finger and flinched. It looked so harmless in the morning light, but he knew better. Jaskier looked back at Geralt, then sat upright and tugged him close. He enveloped Geralt tight as he could with trembling arms. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered. “In my dream, the ring wrapped you in fire. It was flowing from my fingertips. I wanted to cut the ring free, but I couldn’t move.”</p><p>Geralt hesitated, then hugged Jaskier back. “I’m not dead.” He held on until he felt Jaskier’s arms begin to loosen, then he pulled away, taking his hands in his. “I took you to a mage. He said you’d been cursed by the Ring of Nehaleni,” he explained.</p><p>“That bitch,” Jaskier croaked.</p><p>Geralt chuckled. Not a minute awake and already quick to insult a deity. “How do you feel?”</p><p>“Like shit that’s been shat on by fouler shit.” Jaskier lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. He sighed, which turned into a cough, followed by a light moan. “Throat hurts,” he said.</p><p>“You were screaming in your sleep a long time.”</p><p>Jaskier nodded. “You said something about a mage?”</p><p>Geralt rubbed his thumb over the ring. The metal was cool against his skin. “This ring was sent by her—by Nehaleni. The mage said it would burn your heart to ash if nothing changes. Said there was something you were keeping secret that you needed to get out.”</p><p>Jaskier’s eyes snapped open and he took a sharp breath.</p><p>Geralt leaned closer, alert. “Jaskier?”</p><p>“Geralt, if I ever pray again, I want you to smack me in the face,” he said through clenched teeth. He looked up at the ceiling—looked beyond it—glaring something savage. “You deliberately misinterpreted my request!” He pointed an accusing finger skyward, then coughed from the strain of his scolding. He dropped his arm with force and clenched the sheets until his knuckles turned white. The look he directed into the air was enough to make Geralt pull back, startled.</p><p>“What was your prayer about?”</p><p>Jaskier sat rigid, glaring, jaw set, and refused to look at him a while. Then, at last, his expression softened. “I prayed to her for help in a certain matter,” he answered vaguely.</p><p>Geralt snorted. “How specific.”</p><p>Jaskier batted at him with a flimsy hand. “Don’t concern yourself with it,” he mumbled.</p><p>“It isn’t your secret prayer that I’m concerned about.” Geralt took his hand, held it tightly. “Jaskier, what’s so secret that you can’t tell me? I know all the fairest and foulest things about you. We could solve this and have the ring off in a minute. Whatever it is, it isn’t worth dying for.”</p><p>Jaskier lay in contemplative stillness. He felt the soft tickle of Geralt’s thumb gliding over knuckles and the ring. “If,” he whispered, speaking to the air. “If I spoke in half-truths, would it hurt?” He looked down at the ring. It looked a little brighter, but no fiery warmth followed after. A compromise then.</p><p>“I’m in love,” Jaskier confessed. He let his hand slip away from Geralt’s grip and turned over, hiding in his pillow. “I’m in love and I prayed to Nehaleni to give voice to the truth, to help me learn whether or not I loved in vain. I’ve always been favored by luck, and my father once told me I was a favorite among the favorites of the gods. That’s why our family has been in such good standing for so many generations; we’re in Luck’s favor. Specifically, we’ve been in Nehaleni’s court since my ancestors were journeymen. I thought … but perhaps I was presumptuous to ask for favors after all I’ve been given. I didn’t think it was such a great thing to ask.”</p><p>“Who?” Geralt asked.</p><p>“Who what?”</p><p>“Who do you love?” Geralt sat stiff beside the bed, awaiting the answer. His heart wanted to race and to freeze all at once. He wanted—he didn’t want—but he had to know.</p><p>Jaskier looked back over his shoulder, his face flushed red. “I’ve already said quite enough on the subject for the moment. Give me some breathing room!”</p><p>“Do I need to remind you that the ring means to kill you if you go on being so stubbornly silent?”</p><p>“I’m already dying—of mortification!” he cried, voice breaking against the further strain. He was not rested enough to even argue against speaking properly. He couldn’t possibly have the strength for the confrontation that was required.</p><p>“I’ll find out,” Geralt said. He sounded confident. “You know I can do it. I don’t need you to tell me who it is. I’ll find out and I’ll drag the truth out of them if that’s what it takes. A bit of truth serum over a friendly pint and we’ll know if it’s love or not. If you knew first how they felt, it’d be easier for you. You could say it out loud and this whole ordeal will be over and done with.”</p><p>Jaskier scoffed, incredulous. “It’s the last person you’d ever expect, and I don’t believe they’d <em>ever</em> let the truth be dragged out, even under the influence of truth serum. And I don’t want to know. If the answer is no, I’d be glad to die anyway. And if it’s yes, well, I’d probably have a heart attack and die of a surprise on the spot. Either way, you can see quite plainly how this all ends.”</p><p>“Don’t be flippant and dramatic, Jaskier!” Geralt grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look him in the eye. “Don’t you understand? This is life and death!”</p><p>“It’s <em>my</em> life, or death as the case may be.”</p><p>Geralt squinted, searching. “Someone who can withstand truth serum … ” He made a face. “Is it Yennefer?”</p><p>Jaskier sputtered. “Wha—! Yenne—? <em>No!”</em> His voice became shrill with indignation at the very idea. He clasped his hands before his face and pitched himself sideways on the bed. “Sweet Melitele, you’re thick as the brick at the base of the castle of Cintra! Why do—have mercy and kill me already, I’ve suffered enough.”</p><p>Geralt grabbed his wrists and jerked him upright. “Stop joking about death,” he growled. “Do you have <em>any</em> idea how much time I’ve spent trying to keep you <em>alive</em> since you ran that smart mouth of yours off at the elves in Posada? I have not bled and born the weight of almost twenty years of your nonsense for you to die on me without so much as a ‘thank-you’ or ‘goodbye’ because you decided to finally give your heart up to some thankless, unworthy wretch, and not have the gall do anything about it!”</p><p>He threw down his hands and crossed his arms in the most petulant manner. “Really, you fall in love with everyone you see. What makes this one worth dying for? It can’t be a very substantial love; I’ve never seen you with one person long enough to be worth wasting away. At the very least, you could tell me her name, then I’d know who to curse after you’ve left.”</p><p>“Geralt.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier said again.</p><p><em>“What?”</em> He looked down at him.</p><p>Jaskier stared for a long moment, then sighed. He slid his hands over his face and just sat. Then, he took a breath and combed his fingertips through his hair, locked them behind his neck and sighed again, his arms limp. He smiled at Geralt and shook his head. He held out his left hand imploringly, as the metal began to glow red. Jaskier winced, but his smile remained. When he next spoke, the redness faded, as if in response to his earnest words.</p><p>“It hurts less ... when <em>you</em> hold it,” he said softly, lacing their fingers together.</p><p>…</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Jaskier smiled at him once more before laying back and closing his eyes.</p><p>Geralt watched him fall asleep. He squeezed his hand tighter and smiled to himself. Well, he was still a thankless, unworthy wretch, but there was time to fix that. He leaned forward and kissed Jaskier's hand, thinking it really all was too much trouble over nothing, as usual.</p><p>And as Jaskier nuzzled deeper into his pillow, Geralt slipped the harmless ring from his finger.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Eh. Not my best work, but something to show for all the time I've been gone trying to figure out the latest chapter of An All-Consuming Creature. I'm just stuck on this one part, you know? I know what happens and where everything's going, but for some reason, I just can't push through, you know? Anyway, enjoy.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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